


Symbols and Secrets

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: House of Rogues [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, For the good of the family, Gang-Violence, Gen, Gobblepot (early stages), Jim Gordon is a man of many secrets, Jim Gordon's Personal Dilemmas, Revenge for the Family, Symbols and Secrets, conflicting emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Detective James Gordon can never really be free of secrets.





	Symbols and Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, settings, events, etc. related to "Gotham" or the "Batman" franchise. My original characters and original plotlines are mine - nothing more. Thank you and enjoy. :)

He gets three steps inside his apartment before he notices the man sitting, with perfect posture nonetheless, on his couch. He scowls at this man and scowls even more at his lack of awareness. _Losing your touch, Gordon_ , he reprimands himself.

“I see the concept of a locked door means nothing to you,” he addresses his guest (loosely termed) before draping his jacket over a chair and making for the kitchen. He needs a drink. He seems to need a drink quite often, these days. It is becoming unfortunately apparent just how and why Harvey went the route of a functioning alcoholic.

“Well, that fake plant outside your door wouldn’t fool a blind man, James.” Cobblepot replies, rather primly. In a three-piece suit and a sleek black cane played between long pale fingers, he befits an evening engagement at the gala, not a garage-sale couch and the equally drab furnishings of Jim’s apartment. His new one, not the one he once shared with Iris, not the cheap city-outskirts one he escaped from three months prior. Out with the old, in with the new, as Harvey said, and so here is the new.

It doesn’t look much different from the old.

It takes a minute for Cobblepot’s little quip to fully register. Realization comes halfway through his second drink. “Give me back the spare key.”

“It’s already on the counter. About three inches to your left, if memory serves.” Pale eyes—pale eyes, pale fingers…everything about this man is so very pale—follow Jim’s growing awareness, then he smirks. “I believe the phrase is, ‘If it were a snake…’”

“Cut the crap and tell me what you want, Cobblepot.” It’s been a long week and this is not how he planned to spend Friday night.

“Your help.”

He doesn’t stifle an amused grunt around his next drink. “ _That_ sounds familiar.”

“Coming from _you_ , most certainly.” The dark-haired man speaks with the unperturbed air of someone examining his fingernails; upon closer inspection, he’s twirling the cane between all five fingers of one hand, but still manages to look remarkably unhurried. It grates Jim’s patience even more than usual. “But if you’re going to just waste time, dredging up the past, then I’ll show myself out and ask Victor. I’m sure he will be happy to assist me, considering his wife’s wellbeing is on the line.”

In times past, and there have been many, Cobblepot drops the bait and watches for Jim to bite. Today, he drops the bait—but it can’t be bait, not really, when the man then promptly rises from his seat and strides to the door. It catches Jim off-guard, this sudden lack of the old game. It makes him call out to the smaller man, “Wait,” and take a cautious step forward. Already with his hand on the door, Cobblepot doesn’t turn and immediately resume his seat and eagerly await Jim’s attention. He turns his head, looks at Jim, and his expression speaks volumes. “Decide already,” it says, without a hint of humor, “or stop wasting my time.”

This is something new.

“I’m listening.” He says. He’s listening with great caution. But he’s listening.

Cobblepot sighs. And he sits back down.

***

Cobblepot leaves around two a.m. Three more days pass before he sees the other man again. This time, beckoning to the early days of their interactions, he receives a phone call at the precinct. No one thinks twice about an unusually lengthy conversation—except for Harvey, but Harvey suspects everything his partner does these days—and Jim isn’t tense or surprised at the sound of Penguin’s voice in his ear. He’s only surprised it took three days. Then he wonders if maybe this was Cobblepot’s way of giving him plenty of time to think.

Maybe.

“And this is the absolute best way to handle the situation?” he asks, later that night over drinks at the club. Well, there are drinks set out on the table, but neither man is touching his. If anything, each one is daring the other to be the first to accept hospitality and drink.

“Ever the skeptic.” Cobblepot huffs and waves an impatient hand; white bird fluttering on a crimson backdrop. “It really should be straightforward for you, Jim: these men are out for blood. You must be proactive, not reactive. I know that’s a new concept for you—after all, Gotham police are the poster-children for reactive handling of matters—but surely you can at least try to pretend you understand.”

Jim glares at him. “I know how to be proactive, Penguin.”

“Then there shouldn’t be any more questions.”

“You’re talking about cold-blooded murder—”

“I,” Cobblepot snaps, quite uncharacteristic of his unruffled pretense, “am talking about removing a band of foul-mouthed, impertinent, treacherous gutter-trash. They think they can play a game with the royalties, usurp the queen from her throne and take it all for themselves. You should be leaping at the opportunity, Jim! They called Iris—”

He stops, and what little color typically lingers in his cheeks fades rapidly. He now looks older, the skin pinched over frail bones, and some undisclosed bit of information darkens his gaze. Then he blinks, shifts only slightly in the well-practiced method of composing himself, and clears his throat. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.” Jim says, but it’s a wasted effort. If Penguin doesn’t think Jim needs to know something, he won’t say a word. He decides what is important and what can be sacrificed between them. Like the truth. He—

“They called her a whore.” Cobblepot says, with no small effort, but it pales to the effort it takes Jim to not fall from his seat in complete shock. “Hardly an original insult, of course—your charming colleagues referred to her with similar slurs, back in the day—but they also avowed to cut the baby from her womb. Now that the child breathes life, they have declared the most…” his face contorts, the sharp angles and tight lines brought into unsettling clarity, “…indescribable fate for the child.”

Those are details to which Jim desires no access. Instead, better to get straight to the greater point at hand. “Why come to me?” his fingers brush cold glass and briefly soak in the amber hue of his untouched drink. “As you said yourself, Zsasz would be more than happy to…deal with them.”

The smaller man offers a disinterested sound; long fingers are drumming—whether from impatience or some other nervous twitch, Jim isn’t quite sure—against sleek dark tabletops. “In the interests of full disclosure,” and when, exactly, did Oswald Cobblepot learn the meaning of _full disclosure_? “such would be my last resort. Victor tolerates my presence as a business associate, quietly swallows my interest in Iris and the child’s wellbeing with relative tact…in short, Jim, I am one uninvited misstep from overstaying my welcome. It quite benefits my self-preservation to not do as much. Particularly when, in circumstances such as these, I would be directly implying Victor cannot, and is not, attending to his wife and child’s safety without needing assistance. You might understand how such an accusation could end badly for the accuser.”

Jim thinks it might not end quite as badly if the accuser in question was not directly responsible for the five bullet wounds stitched closed across the man’s body. “How do you know about these threats?”

Such is, really, the more pressing matter at hand. Cobblepot and Zsasz’s personal issues can be addressed at a later time.

Another shrug follows; his fingers have stopped their nervous rhythm on the tabletop, and instead are circling the rim of his glass in such a way that shadows dance lightly off the liquid within. “It appears the truce between Iris and myself has either not reached all ears in this city, or else they believe me easily swayed to violate it with due haste.”

“Can’t imagine why.” The words drop off his tongue without full awareness, but he doesn’t try to retract a single one because, quite frankly, he means them. Something flashes in pale eyes—Jim thinks it almost looks like, but can’t be, hurt—before a blink washes the proof away.

“James,” Cobblepot speaks very slowly, very tightly, and his fingers place a little pressure on the glass, “I am attempting to be both diplomatic and forthcoming with you. Your frequent bouts of sarcasm and unadulterated doubt are not making this a smooth effort.”

“Since when have we practiced anything that resembles a _smooth effort_ between us?”

In place of the quick retort he expects, the bird-man blinks, twice, and sighs. He takes a minute to—Think? Compose himself? What?—and then leans more heavily in his chair. “I suppose we haven’t. I suppose none of this makes sense, at least to you. Maybe it makes even less sense to myself. In fact, I think it rather makes no sense.”

Another pause, thumb tapping tabletop beside the glass, “James,” his voice seems softer now, almost childlike but not quite; Jim thinks it nearly sounds gentle, “when Gabe returned—unscathed, which I assure you was a shock in and of itself—to relay Iris’ acceptance of my invitation, I did not expect her to hold true and come alone. After all, why would she? She has a clan of twenty-plus men, able-bodied and ruthless and prepared to bloody their hands in her defense. Not one of them hold me in any regard—for which, I admit, I do not blame them—and no one holds me in less consideration than her husband. I was certain she would have company, and yet she did not. She arrived, alone. We spoke with relative civility (any words exchanged were on equal part and warranted) and reached neutral ground.”

“I know all of this.” Maybe not the finer details, but enough. “What’s your point?”

There is something there, hidden carefully behind walls impenetrable, and Cobblepot seems quite discontent to offer a glimpse behind their fortitude. “Those weeks I was ridden with fever, poison coursing its way out of my body…I was stricken with clarity. I found myself considering past events—hindsight is always twenty-twenty, as you know—in ways I had not previously. I realized the errors of my actions; the miscalculations I made. And perhaps most prominently…I realized how much I hated Iris. Not who she was, or is, but what she represented.”

“…and what is that?” he isn’t sure he wants the answer, but in the interests of full-disclosure… “What does she—or did she—represent?”

The smirk is familiar in shape, thinning out the man’s lips, but there is a tinge of bitterness Jim doesn’t recognize from a man so self-assured, arrogant beyond redemption. “Everything I can’t have.”

Questions; so many questions flood the mind with those simple words, but Cobblepot doesn’t allow for a single one. “If you cannot stomach this act, James,” he says, abruptly upright, sweeping gesture returning him to the poised figure of blood-soaked dignity once more, “then simply say so. We waste time with petty conversation, and there are vultures circling the sky above.”

***

Jim leaves the club, drink untouched. He goes home. Takes off his badge, leaves it on the dresser. He changes from the respectable suit of a detective; dons dark denim and the beloved black leather jacket. It welcomes him into cool folds, familiar and comforting. He thinks to wear sunglasses, or a mask, or some garment to disguise his features, then decides against it.

His cell phone buzzes softly: a text message bearing an address. The number isn’t in his contacts, but he knows the sender all the same.

*** 

The night air cracks, loud, with the sound of execution. Cold grey concrete painted red, in varying hues, and moonlight. An abandoned warehouse, ever the gathering place of those with lacking scruples and empty pockets, but greedy minds and ravenous hearts of black, is now a tomb of bodies growing cold. Three blocks away, Jim rests against the alley wall. His phone feels like a dead weight in his pocket, waiting for him to make the call and report the latest in gang-affiliated violence which seems to plague this city without end.

He never makes the call. He breathes slow, heavy. The air is tinged bitter with the cigarettes Gabe and Butch—hulking sentinels of loyalty, each to his own master—smoke a short distance away. Silence, then the soft click of Cobblepot’s cane on asphalt approaches. The gait is slower than usual.

“You should go to the hospital for that.” Jim murmurs.

“I’ve had worse.” Nonchalant, even with a bullet graze trickling blood through a damaged trouser leg.

“You should still go the hospital.”

“I’d rather not, James.” _Given the circumstances_ follows, unsaid between them yet heard clearly all the same.

Two hours later, they’re at Jim’s apartment. Butch has retired to his own premises; Gabe stands watchful at the door. The floor is littered with bloodied cloths and used antiseptic pads. An icepack is wrapped firm around the freshly-bandaged wound, to ease away swelling. Jim thinks it ironic, and unkindly so, that there should be another injury to the leg which already boasts a battle wound from another life.

Cobblepot takes it in stride—“I still have one good leg,” he smiles—and obeys Jim’s directive to elevate the leg, stretching out across the couch with a little quip about ruining the upholstery. Humor has no place here, not on this night, and yet Jim cracks a smirk and remarks it might improve the overall quality. After all, it’s a salvage yard rescue, not a leather model fresh off the runway.

It’s only another hour before drinks are shared between them: an expensive bottle of brandy Harvey “found” and decided to share (Jim suspects there is a second bottle, stashed away in his partner’s loft) as a “Becoming a Grandfather” present. The innumerable collection of cigars was thrown in the trash, allowing him full access to the desk drawers again. Occasionally, Jim finds a pink pacifier or small bundle of diapers lying around his area. There’s no reason to waste diapers, so he gives those to Iris. Anything pink, he donates. His son-in-law (and doesn’t that leave a foul taste in the mouth?) has personal feelings as to the color, which loiter in the category of “murderous disdain”. But it’s still a perfectly good pacifier, and someone else will make use of it.

“I shouldn’t have been there.” He says, three drinks in.

Cobblepot shrugs. “You may wear the badge, James,” he answers, quietly, “but you are the father of She-Wolf. If you want to bow out, now is your chance—before the lines grow blurred past distinction.”

Ah, but are they not already? His gun is still warm; the bullets left in more than one decaying corpse belong to him. The blood is on his hands, once more, yet the stains aren’t there to be seen. He tries, peers desperately at spread palms; yearns to glimpse even the tiniest fleck of damning red. There is none. Not a single one.

“I’ll get us another drink.” Jim says, and makes for the brandy. If Oswald’s lips curve in silent satisfaction, he doesn’t notice.

***

Murders, even _en masse_ , are such a common occurrence now that it isn’t even worthy of bull-pen gossip, the next morning. The days of Jim shouldering a target, an ugly ink stain of sin, are no longer of immediate consideration: no one throws him a sideways glance or begin muttering as soon as he walks by. He remembers there was no real forensic countermeasure attempted last night. He thinks of the bullets left in bodies, the ones fired from his gun—a policeman’s gun, registered weapon, carrying its own brand of damnation—and he’s outside the morgue doors.

Lee greets him with a gentle kiss and invites him to join her for a quick bakery run—croissants and coffee. He wrangles a smile to his face, returns the kiss with as much enthusiasm as he can muster (which isn’t much, truth be told), and declines the offer. Says he needs to follow up on some evidence. She offers to postpone her breakfast errand. In the corner, Jim sees Ed’s shoulders stiffen, insulted. Jim makes a point to say, audibly for all present, he’s quite certain Ed can assist him and there’s no need for Lee to go hungry just because Jim has a last-minute request.

She laughs and calls him dramatic. Once she walks out the door, Jim breathes easily, all the while knowing he shouldn’t be so relieved by her exit.

“Looking for this, Jim?” Ed asks; between pinched fingers is an evidence bag and bullets rusted with blood. Jim goes cold.

“Ed—”

“You’ll be happy to know these are far too damaged for an originating model to be determined.” Edward continues, perfectly nonchalant; when he turns around, he wears an equally neutral expression. “I suppose some fingerprints might be retrieved, if one were to look closely enough—but really, with so much more important work to handle, who has time for the particulars?”

Jim frowns. “A man who lives for the particulars.”

The neutral expression hardens into resolve; something changes in the other man’s gaze. It isn’t necessarily of concern, but enough to catch attention—before it disappears entirely and Edward’s smiling, calm as can be. “What time is it when an elephant sits on a fence?”

“Time to get a new fence.” Jim shakes his head, “C’mon, Ed…everyone knows that one.”

“Precisely.” His smile doesn’t waver; if anything, it broadens, stretching almost too wide on his face. “And a riddle to which everyone knows the answer…” he leans a little closer, voice lowering like he reveals some grand secret, “…is worthless.”

“Ed—”

“We’re in too deep, Jim, you and I.” Edward swivels lightly, turning back to his desk and his bagged evidence and too many secrets kept hidden. “We failed Iris once before, when that monster snatched her away,” Jim flinches, the subject still an open wound, too sore to just be tossed out so casually in conversation, “I for one don’t intend to fail her again. Whatever it takes.”

_Whatever it takes…_

***

“I personally would have presented the completed package to you, right here,” Oswald smiles, perfectly ignorant of the dozens glaring daggers at his back, “but I couldn’t bear the thought of ruining your carpet.”

His timing wants something in the way of tact, yes, but Oswald Cobblepot continues to pride himself on the most dramatic entrance possible. Iris knows it as well as he: the amused glimmer playing across her gaze when he first strolled in, two minutes earlier, amidst a family meeting (behind closed doors, just for an added touch of audacity), said as much. Now, blue eyes regard him with confusion, a slight crease between slim eyebrows as Oswald takes her hand and sets his prize inside.

“I hope you’ll accept what I could salvage.” He continues, releasing her hand before Victor decides to do it for him. “Consider it a gift to the little wolf.”

Her palm opens, eyes downcast to examine that which he has offered. In the time it takes him to blink, her entire countenance changes: eyes bright, posture drawn upright, and when she lifts her head, a thin smile curves her lovely mouth. “ _Danke_.”

Oswald lets himself smile again, and the next time he catches her hand, in both of his, it is to set a kiss upon the glittering opal set upon her right hand. He bears a similar adornment, but of a large ruby which catches firelight quite pleasantly. But a stone of black, gleaming on white canvas, suits her best. A ruby, he thinks, would be too gaudy.

“Breakfast tomorrow, half past eight?”

“The little café your mother adores so much?”

His mouth drops in a grimace. “Preferably not,” he elects to not tell her all the gushing congratulations Mother received, the last time he and Iris were seen sharing a meal in that place, that little Oswald managed to land himself such a lovely girl (Victor will never let Iris be seen in public again, should he find out), “what about that little diner you enjoy? The one near the precinct.”

“Consider it a date.” Iris flashes him a sweet smile. “So to speak.”

Victor is glaring at him, murderously so, which is an extraordinary feat for a man presently cradling a tiny bundle of purple-clothed limbs in his arms. Best to make a swift exit, sooner than later. “Tomorrow then.” Oswald dips into a low bow, a little dramatic but full of honest intentions, and nods to the family. “Gentlemen.”

At the door, Butch shakes his head, makes an amused comment about Oswald being well-endowed (exact terminology adjusted), and shows him to the car, where Gabe is waiting. Butch will be by the club, later, to share his customary drink with Gabe and chat like old friends. Oswald lets them be, because each other is as close a friend as the other can ever have. And there is something endearing about two towering bulks of humanity shooting the breeze over drinks like a pair of college friends.

_Oswald’s_ is relatively empty (weekdays are rarely the most popular times, and Wednesdays particularly so), but there is a lovely young blonde on stage, crooning pleasantly into the microphone, and a few of the older generation (the ones who can’t stand the actual club scene but need their drinks before five o’clock) are scattered throughout, nursing their pleasures. Oswald leaves Butch and Gabe to their desires and relieves his bartender early. He’s in a good mood, after all. Why not share such fortune with the deserving?

***

It’s two in the morning when Jim darkens the door at _Oswald’s_. There have been rumors of imminent destruction and reconstruction on this place, though he’s yet to see proof or hear anything concrete towards the matter. It’s quiet, now: even the most devoted partiers eventually drag themselves out the door. Gabe isn’t here—must have been excused, some time ago—and only the establishment’s owner remains. As underdressed as Jim has ever seen him, Cobblepot has shed his jacket over the countertop and abandoned his tie to realms unknown; his shirtsleeves are rolled up, pale forearms exposed, and the top button is popped at his collar.

At some point, Jim realizes he’s staring too much.

“May I offer you a drink, Detective?” Cobblepot asks, without looking up from the paperwork spread wide across the polished surface. By the time Jim sits down, without knowing why, there’s a glass of whiskey waiting and even though he didn’t actually order anything, he accepts the offering without objection.

He happens to glance down at the strewn documents. Blueprints. A second look, with more intent, makes Cobblepot’s cramped handwriting more distinct. He looks a little closer, and after a long while he feels the other man take notice.

“Impressive.” Jim pronounces; if Cobblepot flushes with silent delight, Jim doesn’t notice too much because he doesn’t like being the one who praises this man, not in such a way that it produces a boyish grin and pale eyes gleam bright. “So the rumors are true.”

“Still in the preliminary stages,” Cobblepot murmurs, still bearing unashamed pride on his face, “but Iris and I have been engaged in discussions—business negotiations, you might say—for several months now. I fully expect to break ground in three weeks.”

“Pretty specific timeline.” It’s half a sarcastic quip and half genuine remark.

“Oh, well…circumstances do arise as they will.” He looks entirely unbothered by it, which Jim finds unusual for a man who plans everything to the last detail—well, almost everything. “And Iris has a growing family to care for, after all. That darling little creature needs her mother.”

A fondness blossoms deep in those grey eyes, and Jim starts, shocked, to realize just how much he’s being allowed to see right now. Oswald Cobblepot knows a thing or two about a mother’s love; Jim has met Gertrude Kapelpot, and while he personally thinks the woman has a couple screws loose and enjoys her drinks a little too often, he sees love in her eyes for her boy—her boy with the silver tongue and a heart so black and rotted that the stink nearly radiates if one gets too close (which of course, Jim is right now; which of course, Jim has been for a long time)—and Cobblepot’s eyes always shimmer a little brighter and he smiles a bit softer when in his mother’s presence. It’s a relationship that borders on the unhealthy and obscene, like so many in Gotham because this city delights in nothing as much as she does infecting what should be the purest of emotional affairs, and yet Jim thinks it might be among the most genuine he’s ever seen.

“By the way,” he says, slowly, “we’re missing something from evidence,” _from the shooting_ follows without words, “Some kind of jewelry. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about it—the pawn shops you frequent,” _the pawn shop owners you extort protection money from_ , “mention anything?”

Cobblepot at least has the decency to think; to pretend he’s actually trying to recall any conversations of worthy mention. Then he shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, James. I do hope it isn’t something of significant value.”

“From what I heard, it’s a cheap piece of costume jewelry.” Jim takes a final draw from his glass. “Not sure why the victim’s family is so worked up about it.”

There is no family to be worked up about anything.

“Monetary value isn’t the only value a trinket can possess, James.” Cobblepot frowns at him, like he should have already realized this. “Sometimes, it’s the symbolism of the thing.”

And isn’t Gotham the city of symbols and symbolism? Of course it is. So what grand symbol might a ring, possessing no cash value and likely stained with the dried blood of its former wearer, be to someone? And who might that someone be?

“Oswald,” he says; the smaller man lifts his eyes, sharp pale slivers of…of a lot of things, really, but among them is a dare. Ask the question. …And Jim understands how the game has now changed between them. Honesty is the name, the ultimate end, but the means lie in Jim’s hands because if he doesn’t ask the question and demand this man’s honesty, he won’t have to hear it. He won’t know what he doesn’t ask.

He sighs.

“Can I bother you for another drink?” he lifts the glass in unnecessary emphasis. Oswald’s face brightens, and there’s that boyish joy that Jim doesn’t like being the cause of and can’t look at too long—lest he start thinking he can actually stomach being that which brings this man the only joy he has in this world.

“It will be my pleasure, James.” He pours two glasses. Jim doesn't object.


End file.
